Seducing the Spy (11 page)

But when Cameron awoke the next morning, all he had were fleas.

Fleas posed a danger to any who slept in hay.

A dull ache in his head matched the dull throb of his leg.

Without even knowing he was a spy, Meggie Fitzgerald had contrived to prevent him from seeking information that could be used to the English advantage. She had shot him.

And when he’d recovered enough to listen, to eavesdrop, and to ask questions during the Lughnasa celebration as was his duty, Meggie had provided him with whiskey. She’d directed Deirdre to serve him enough whiskey and mead to make him pass out before he could learn anything of import.

With so many in attendance and loose lipped from drinking, Cameron had hoped to learn how the Irish rebels planned to defend Ulster. Instead, he had become annoyed with O’Donnell’s sudden appearance and subsequent dalliance with Meggie.

When Cameron should have been keeping his ears open for information, he had fallen into a sulk when the duchess and O’Donnell left the great hall. With Deirdre’s help, Cameron had turned to the whiskey for cheer too often. The evening had ended ingloriously when he had collapsed in a pile of hay.

He was a disgrace to his country. He had failed in the simplest of tasks. Worse, he feared what the Irish harridan might do next. She was a cunning woman.

She had implanted herself in his mind. He could not seem to banish her.

Cameron struggled to his feet. His legs wobbled unsteadily; his mouth felt stuffed with wool directly from the sheep’s back.

Once his legs settled firmly beneath him, and aided by his walking stick, he made for the river just beyond the bailey.

The
dark indigo river wound its way from a small wooded copse of ancient oaks to feed the pond used as a trough by the herds of Fitzgerald cattle and sheep. No fences restrained the livestock. Their survival depended upon the shepherds staying alert, or at least awake.

Cameron made his way toward the gates leaning heavily on his walking stick. Another source of his sour mood. His reliance on the hawthorn branch frustrated him. Never in his life had he been dependent upon either an instrument or another human being. He had needed nothing and no one. The walking stick was a sign of weakness that he detested. For a man who took pride in faultless execution both in his personal affairs as well as his military duties, Cameron’s current plight distressed him excessively.

Marching on - aye, he found it possible to march with a crooked stick - he resolved not to be deterred from his mission any longer by anyone. He paid detailed attention to the activity within the castle walls and to everyone he passed. The washwomen waved to him as they carried bundles from the castle to the small, thatch-roofed wash house. Chickens scurried from his path, clucking and pecking at the dusty ground. It hadn’t rained for several days, an unusual circumstance in Ireland.

Cameron stopped short at the forge when he caught sight of Barra and his men emerging from the castle. Niall accompanied the rebel warriors. On the pretext of observing the shoeing of an old steed, Cameron kept an eye on the Irish rebels as they headed toward the stable. It appeared that Barra and his band of rowdies were about to take leave of Dochas. But what of Niall?

What interest had the wealthy farmer in Barra? Had Meggie’s suitor truly laid down his arms? Did his missing eye prevent him from taking part in the rebellion, or did he make the claim for Meggie’s benefit?

Questions flashed through Cameron’s mind one after the other. Although he had no answers now, he meant to have them by the time he left Dochas.

When the gate opened to allow Barra and his group to pass beyond the castle walls, Cameron stayed to the shadows and slipped out as well. After the small band rode off, he continued to the river with fresh determination. When he met his contact in Dublin, he vowed to have important information to impart. Cameron meant to make up for this lapse. He would not be diverted again. He would earn the rank of captain before the end of summer.

When he reached the wooded copse, Cameron achieved a degree of privacy. The thick, leafy branches of the oak trees blocked him from view. After swiftly shedding his garments, he jumped into the river. Icy water rolled over him as he plunged downward. A series of hard chills bolted through him, shaking his body from ears to ankles.

He emerged from the frigid river on a bellow. “Aaargh!”

A scream from beyond the bend echoed his involuntary roar.

“Yeoooow!”

A woman nearby in trouble?

Cameron swam toward where the scream had come from.

Meggie Fitzgerald instantly regretted her reaction. She did not often shriek from fright. The last time was several months ago when a rat the size of a goat had run over her toes in the forge. But the bloodcurdling yell from so close by had startled her. Immobilized in the bone-chilling water, she wasn’t even aware she had stopped treading water until she swallowed a mouthful on the way under.

Spewing frigid river water, Meggie flailed about until she was once again afloat. She listened. Nothing. Although uncertain whether the sound of outrage came from man or beast, she suspected man. But friend or foe? Clothed in nothing but her chemise and treading the cold water at least fifty feet from the shore, Meggie felt excessively vulnerable. Her dagger and musket lay beneath her clothes on the riverbank.

Seamus and Bernadette refused to enter the water. They had been lying on the bank watching her. Now they stood, anxiously looking about with their tails between their legs. Cautiously, Meggie made for the river bank.

She had come to wash away the fleas she had acquired by lingering in the hay with the bard last eve. While his kiss still burned on her lips and warmed her core whenever she thought of it, the fleas served as an unpleasant reminder of her appalling, brazen behavior.

With much reluctance, Meggie had torn her lips from the poet’s. And yet her body had sparked and crackled like a fire in the hearth. She had gazed down upon him, attempting to rein in her emotions, to understand the storm within her. Her head had felt as if she had been spinning round and round, like children at play. When they stopped, they watched to see who would fall.

Meggie would have fallen.

But when she had whispered his name, Colm did not answer. ’Twas the first she realized her kiss had been less than thrilling for him. The bard had fallen asleep. While her body had ached for another kiss, for the touch of his fingertips, Colm had lain senseless.

Or, taking another view Meggie quite favored, her kiss had been too much for the man and he’d passed out.

She was not far from the safety of the riverbank when Colm rounded the bend. A flood of relief washed through her, followed by smug amusement. She knew why the bard had come to the river.

Stifling a giggle, Meggie allowed her wonderstruck regard to swallow him whole. His hair, gleaming like darkest sable, swept slickly back behind his ears, revealing his features in stark, heart-stopping, toe-curling clarity. From the broad plane of his brow to the intriguing cleft pressed lightly into his chin, the wandering poet had much to recommend him.

Golden lights glimmered from the depths of Colm’s eyes as they met Meggie’s. Her gaze drifted down to his sun-bronzed shoulders, rising above the water, broad and square. She could set Dochas upon his shoulders and he would not bend under the weight. Celtic warrior kings of old would pale in comparison to the force of his masculinity, his chiseled magnificence. The bard was like the roar of thunder to the howl of the wind made by most other men.

Seamus and Bernadette ran back and forth along the river bank, barking at Colm as if he did not know they were craven cowards.

Meggie caught the flash of gold gleaming in the sun and knew the bard wore nothing but his rose-and-crown ring. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo.

“I did not mean to frighten ye,” he called. “I thought I was alone.”

“I came to wash the fleas away.”

He regarded her with a frown. Or was it a glower? “Were ye in the stable? In the hay?”

He did not even remember! Her mouth fell open on its own accord. “Aye.”

The bard gave her a sheepish, crooked smile. “I thought I’d dreamt it.”

“I... I was cursed by the wee people, I was, as a babe. Forgive me, Bard, for I behaved in a wicked manner.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Wicked women are highly coveted among men.”

“Ye fell asleep.”

“And I shall rue the day until I am a feeble old man,” he said, giving a contrite wag of his head. “I must not yet be up to full strength.”

His excuse did nothing to comfort Meggie. But oddly enough, she ceased to feel the chill of the cold water. Ripples of warmth spilled through her. She could only imagine. The bard at full strength!

Merciful Mary.

Not four feet away, Colm treaded water as naked as the day he was born. Meggie might as well be bare. Her water-soaked chemise molded itself to every curve of her body. And here they chatted as if sitting in an English garden fully dressed in frills and ruffs.

If Niall came upon them, how would she explain? Meggie could not explain how natural it seemed herself.

Niall expected her to marry him. But while her heart jumped like a jester at the mere sight of the bard, she remained unmoved by Niall. She sympathized with the loss of his eye, and she knew he offered all she desired in a husband. But she did not love him. And she did not wish to hurt Niall. She feared firing his anger as well. Niall’s Irish temper was the thing of legends. If he thought, however mistakenly, that Colm had come between them, the bard’s life might be in danger.

Once Colm was on his way, she would face Niall with the truth.

Having decided on a course of action, Meggie put the man out of her mind. Niall would never come to the river to wash.

“Would ye join me as I dry out?” she asked the poet, gesturing toward the pool of her clothes and the mantle spread like a blanket on the grassy knoll above the riverbank.

Seamus and Bernadette kept a watchful eye as they lay beneath a tree some yards away. Not that they should leap to her rescue if required. But having the hounds nearby always made Meggie feel a bit easier.

Colm’s frown suggested pain of some kind. Pursing his lips, he rubbed his forehead. For a fleeting moment, Meggie wondered if her simple invitation distressed him. At last, his frown fell away, his hand dropped from his forehead, and he nodded in agreement. “I’ll fetch my clothes.”

By the time Cohn joined her, Meggie had dressed. She sat in the grass warming herself beneath the summer sun. Wrapped in his mantle, he appeared taller and broader and as fearsome as an ancient warrior. Her heart pounded unmercifully against her chest. A primeval reaction, she felt certain.

“My clothes are still drying,” he explained.

The thought of his nakedness taunted her.

She yearned to open his mantle and walk into him, into his hard warmth. Instead, she responded with great calmness, “Ye could have given them to the washerwomen ye know.”

“I did not want to be more of a burden than I already have been.”

Meggie smiled. He was more considerate than most men.

“Would ye mind?” she asked, holding out her brush.

He stared at the brush as if he had not seen one before. His dark brows dove into the deepest frown Meggie had seen yet. “Ye want me to brush your hair?”

“Aye.”

“I’ve ne’er brushed a lass’s hair before.”

“’Tis the same as brushing your own. Sit with me.”

Colm took the brush from her hand, contemplating it as if it might turn on him. But he hunkered down to the grass beside her.

“Spread your legs,” Meggie said.

“What?”

“If I sit between your legs, you will be able to brush my hair with ease. Your mantle will cover you.”

He did not seem certain, but reluctantly did as she asked.

Meggie made herself comfortable, far enough from Colm’s manhood but close enough to the heat and musky maleness of him.

“Do ye not have any sisters?” she asked.

“Aye,” he replied tersely. “I have five of them.”

“Five!” she exclaimed before dissolving in a gale of hearty laughter.

“You may be amused, but I spent my youth avoiding the lasses,”

“Your mother and da must have been joyous to have ye... a boy.”

“Aye. I was given to them. My own mother and father did not want me and gave me away shortly after I was born.”

Meggie stared, stunned. “Nooo.”

Silence fell on the riverbank. All was still except for the sound of a skylark, the swish and roll of the river.

Cameron could not believe he had confessed what he never spoke of, what he rarely thought about. He had blurted the truth of his existence to Meggie Fitzgerald, duchess, Irish enemy, and wild harridan woman. His stomach tightened as if it were about to receive a blow.

“Perhaps your ... your natural mother and father were so poor they could not keep you. But they loved you so dearly they made certain ye would have a roof over your head and food in your stomach, the only way they knew. Perhaps they gave you away out of love, Colm. Perhaps, every day since, they have wondered about you and longed to see you and know you.”

Cameron had never considered such a possibility. Meggie’s view of the matter served to soothe him. “Perhaps. But I make no complaints. I have been raised well and have lacked for nothing,”

“Were ye raised on a farm? In the south?” Meggie asked. But before he could answer, she declared, “Is it not strange that I know nothing about you?”

“’Tis not strange. I am only passing through. Why should you wish to know me?”

“You have spent many days at Dochas. I should know more than I do about you. I like ye.”

And Cameron liked her. He liked brushing her hair. To his surprise, the sweeping rhythm of each stroke proved a sensual pleasure. Taking handful s of the silken stuff in turn, he slowly brushed the long, luxurious strands over the palm of his hand. As the lustrous mass dried, its shade changed from a dark brick red to a bright golden flame. Cameron could only marvel in silence.

Entranced by the vixen, or perhaps this new undertaking, his breath came in shallow spurts.